Closure: Alternate Ending
by Tez
Summary: For those of us who were dissatisfied with the ending of Closure Part II...did anyone notice that the profile of Cleary's victims sounded a lot like a description of Alex? Spoilers for Closure, Parts I and II.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Law and Order in any of its incarnations. Be glad I don't, because it would probably become a romantic comedy if I did.

A/N: This story is set directly after Closure, Part II, but assumes Harper Anderson and Mrs. Cleary did not kill Kenneth Cleary after the mistrial was declared. Did anyone else notice that the profile of the victims sounded a lot like a description of Alex? Except for the part where Alex lives on the Upper _West_ Side; I went ahead and relocated her apartment building to the East Side to make the story work. :P

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"Acquire some professionalism," I mutter, pacing the length of the tiny elevator in my building as I wait for it to reach my floor. Judge Barry's comment about my lack of professionalism still stings, and it's doubly worse because there's a small part of me that agrees with her. Cleary's wife was unstable and I put her on the stand anyway. "But I _needed_ her," I sigh. "I needed the jewelry to prove the timeline of the rapes. Besides, professionalism wouldn't have helped me handle Mrs. Cleary. Ventriloquism might have done the trick, but there's no other way for me to control the excited utterances of my witnesses...especially the crazy ones." The elevator dings and I sigh, stepping off onto my floor. "Oh, who am I kidding? They're all crazy."

"Alex?" calls a familiar voice. I turn around and see Clara Deluca, my friend and next-door neighbor, giving me a curious look. She probably heard me talking to myself. I do my best to put a smile on my face as she comes closer. After today's trial, though, I don't feel like I've got much to smile about.

"I haven't seen you in days," she scolds mildly, stopping long enough to give me our usual greeting: air kisses on either cheek. I reciprocate, taking a break from blaming myself for the disaster that was the Cleary trial to be amused by this daily ritual. Neither one of us has ever been any closer to France than drinking Perrier with our Caesar salads at lunch, but over the three years we've known each other the traditional French gesture has become a running joke.

"Clara. Yeah, I've been busy at work." I search for a change of subject and find one when I notice her apparel. "Are you headed out this late?" I ask politely, but we both know my real question is, "Are you headed out this late dressed like that?" She's wearing a men's t-shirt, presumably her fianc's since it's practically a dress on her, the scruffiest sweatpants on the planet and a pair of bright blue Old Navy sandals. It's not exactly her usual trendy ensemble.

"Nah," she laughs, grabbing the elevator door before it can close. "I'm just going down to check the mail. I'm expecting Gabriel's birthday present to get here any day now, and I don't want him snooping around and finding it, so I'm going to grab it and hide it in my office until the big day. Since you don't actually have to go into the lobby to get the mail anymore, I'm declaring a dress-down day and going like this."

"Good luck," I tell her. She winks as the elevator doors close, whisking her downstairs to the mailboxes, and I return to wallowing in self-recrimination over the Cleary trial as I walk down the hall to my apartment.

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I wander aimlessly around my apartment for almost an hour. I turn the TV on, but I can't find anything interesting. It's typical: six hundred channels and still nothing worth watching.

I spend fifteen minutes trying to choose between a rerun of 'Three's Company' and an episode of 'Lifestyles of the Disgustingly Rich and Famous'. I finally give up and turn off the television, immediately missing the background noise. Pushing the thought out of my mind, I realize that since I missed dinner I should probably eat something, and head into the kitchen. I consider making dinner, decide it's too much trouble, and grab a cup of yogurt from the fridge.

"This night is a total loss," I mutter out loud, my voice echoing in the impersonal steel-and-tile kitchen. Finishing my yogurt in relative silence, I put the spoon in the dishwasher, and I'm about to throw away the empty plastic cup when I notice the recyclable plastic emblem on the side. It occurs to me that I ought to be recycling my yogurt containers, since I eat at least one yogurt a day, and I resolve to look into it tomorrow.

"No wonder I spend so much time at work," I sigh. "The most exciting prospect in my personal life is getting a recycling bin."

I pour myself a glass of water from the Brita filter and bring it with me into the bedroom, making sure to turn off the lights in the kitchen and living room. If I'm going to start recycling, I might as well conserve energy, too.

About three seconds later, I regret shutting off the lights. It seems darker in my apartment than usual. Feeling unsettled, I sit down on the bed, resting the water glass on my nightstand and glancing at the window.

"It's locked," I assure myself. I'm trying to be amused at my own unease, but it's not working. Feeling like a frightened child checking the closet for nighttime monsters, I go over and tug on the window frame. It doesn't budge.

"I told you," I say, and then shake my head at my own ridiculousness. "Great. I've graduated from talking to myself to arguing with myself. I'm losing my mind."

_Kenneth Cleary's victims were all blonde_, the persistent little voice in the back of my head reminds me. _Blonde, pretty, single, living on the Upper East Side, fire escape leading into the apartment. Just like you._

"And their windows were all unlocked," I scold myself. "You just checked. It's fine. Time for bed."

This miniature motivational speech gets me back to the bed and tucked under the covers, but as I reach up to flip the switch on my bedside lamp, I hesitate. Clara's home. I could go over to her apartment, hang out for a little while. It's almost 12:30 in the morning now, but she'll still be up, waiting for Gabriel to come home. Her fiancé works the 3pm to midnight shift. He might be home by now, actually. I know they wouldn't mind if I did show up; not Clara and Gabriel, the patron saints of insomnia. They'd probably be glad to have a new player join their late-night playback of this evening's 'Jeopardy!', taped because they both work well past 8pm every night. I'd certainly feel a lot safer with Gabriel around. I could just tell them I got lonely; they'd buy it. It's not like I'd have to admit that I'm so worried about a case that I'm afraid to sleep in my own apartment...

"Ridiculous," I tell myself firmly, banishing the thought from my mind. "You have to work tomorrow. You're a professional, Alexandra. Go to sleep."

Decisively, I turn off the light and snuggle down into my bed, pulling the covers tight around me. The window is locked. Everything's fine.


	2. Chapter 2

In my dream, I'm back in my very first women's self-defense class, the one I started the day after I was assigned to the SVU. In real life I went on to take two more years of Tae Kwan Do and am currently working on my black belt, but in this dream I'm back in that first class. I know this because Jenna Davenport, my sensei, is wearing street clothes, standing barefoot in the middle of the practice mat. She never wears street clothes to actual lessons, just the self-defense workshops.

She notices my attention and frowns, shaking her head at me.

"No shoes allowed, Alex," she scolds. I look down to find that I'm wearing my karate gi, complete with brown belt, and my least favorite pair of high heels. I kick off the offending shoes and join her on the mat.

"What are we working on?" I ask, distracted by the odd sensation of knowing I'm dreaming. Usually I can't tell I've been dreaming until after I've already woken up.

"The basics, Alex," she replies, with her usual impish smile. "Always the basics. Everything else is just –"

"- icing on the cake," we chorus together. I drop into a defensive crouch, bringing my hands up to the 'guard' position. She strikes without warning, changing angle and direction rapidly. I block the blows, feeling my body slip into the automatic response mode that comes from hours of repeating the same motions over and over. My eyes see the next punch and my arms respond unconsciously, swinging into the right position to keep it from getting through my guard.

She stops abruptly after what feels like an eternity of this. I'm sweating heavily, the drops of salty liquid stinging my eyes, and my arms are protesting the constant abuse.

"Good, Alex," she encourages me, bouncing on her toes with her seemingly infinite supply of energy. She's like a cute, vicious Energizer bunny, something that I told her once in a moment of temporary insanity. It earned me a hearty laugh and a hundred push-ups. "Now it's your turn."

I wipe my hand across my face and drop into a crouch again. Jenna walks backward off the mat, looking at something behind me.

"Aren't we going to spar?" I ask, confused.

She catches my gaze, holding it intently. "Just like I taught you, Alex," she says, her usually cheery tone undercut with concern. "Remember. Fight just like I taught you."

I blink at her, puzzled. I'm about to ask her what she means when my arms are jerked above my head, hard. Something hits my leg, knocking me down and pinning me against the practice mat. My vision is blocked as the attacker yanks my shirt up, covering my face with the fabric, and I scream when I realize I'm not dreaming anymore. There's something heavy holding me down, immobilizing my legs, and my purple flannel pajama top is smothering me. Something hits my cheek, my head jerking back from the force of the blow.

"Is this how you like it?" a familiar, vicious voice hisses in my ear. A wave of nausea hits me as I freeze in place, too shocked to struggle. It's him.

_Come on, Alex, fight!_ I can hear the Dream-Jenna's voice in my head, as clear as daylight. _You know this! You've done this!_

In that first self-defense class, I learned how to get away from an attacker pinning me down. I shake off my momentary paralysis and follow the steps mechanically now: shift my weight to one side, hook my ankle around his, and roll hard off the edge of the bed, trying to come down on top. We fall from the bed to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. He releases my wrists in surprise and I yank them away from him, shoving my shirt down off of my face so I can see. What I do see makes me want to hide my eyes again. Kenneth Cleary, snarling in fury, is grabbing for my hand.

I let him take it and move with him when he pulls me forward, slamming my knee into his groin. He yells, cursing fluently, and I scream for help. The walls in my building are thick, but Clara or Gabriel or someone passing in the hallway might still hear me. I keep shouting as I hit him again, first in the solar plexus, then directly on the bridge of his nose. It breaks with a surreal cracking noise and he curls up on his side, whimpering. I jump to my feet, delivering a sharp stomp to his knee before running for the door. As terrified as I am, I hesitate as my hand touches the doorknob. What if he gets away?

_The first rule of self-defense is escape,_ Dream-Jenna's voice reminds me. _He's down. Get out now. Get help. Go!_

I flip the deadbolt, fumbling frantically with the chain – goddamn chain, why did I have to lock it tonight? – and manage to unhook it, breaking into a run as I duck blindly out into the hallway. Four steps later, I slam into Gabriel Maxwell's broad chest.

"Alex!" he shouts roughly, but his hands on my shoulders are gentle. "Alex, what's wrong?"

"Cleary," I gasp, but of course he has no idea what I'm talking about. "Kenneth Cleary, the Upper East Side rapist. In my bedroom."

"Get inside," he instructs, pushing me toward his and Clara's apartment. Clara grabs my arm from the doorway, pulling me in. I was so panicked that I didn't even see her standing there. "You girls call 911 and lock yourselves in the bathroom. Go!"

"Come on, Alex," Clara gasps, snatching the portable phone off the counter as we run for the bathroom. She locks the door behind us, dialing the police operator as I sink down onto the tile floor. My back rests against the door, acting as one more block between me and Cleary.

"Oh god oh god oh god," I breathe, rocking back and forth unconsciously as Clara speaks into the receiver. "Oh god, I checked the window. I checked it. It was locked."

Clara sits down across from me on the floor and reaches out to take my hand, the phone trapped between her ear and her shoulder as she talks. I grip her hand tightly, feeling a little better when I realize that her hands are trembling almost as badly as mine.

"My fiancé went over there," Clara is telling the dispatcher. "He's a firefighter with the 2-9. He – Oh, Alex, honey, you're bleeding. Here, take the phone."

I grasp it with numb fingers, barely able to hold it steady against my ear.

"Alex? Is this Alex?"

"Yes," I respond automatically, watching as Clara wets a washcloth under the sink faucet and wrings out the excess water. "Yes. Alex Cabot. I'm an assistant district attorney." Saying my job title gives me the usual rush of confidence. It never fails to make me feel stronger, like I have some authority, some control, over the world. Or at least over Manhattan.

"Alex, are you all right?"

The dispatcher's tinny voice is a comfort, knowing that it means help is on the way. Having Clara with me helps, too. The washcloth she's holding feels wonderfully cool against my swollen cheek.

"I'm not sure," I admit, mentally checking myself over. Even as I think about it, Clara's there, examining me with gentle hands. There are places that hurt when she touches them – my cheek, my knee, my shoulder – but nothing feels broken. "Yes, I think so."

"Good. Now Alex, I need you to tell me where you are. Are you still in danger?"

"I don't know. My building is at 235 East 78th Street; Englewood Place. I live in 10C, but I'm in my neighbor's apartment, 10D. We locked ourselves in the bathroom. Gabriel sent us in here and went into my apartment to keep Cleary away from us. I haven't heard anything else."

"What happened?"

"Kenneth Cleary," I say, still unable to believe it. "I fit the profile, I knew I did, but the window was locked. I checked it before I went to bed."

"What profile, honey?" the dispatcher asks. She sounds motherly and caring. I realize absently that I'd be a complete failure as a dispatcher. I don't do 'caring' or 'comforting' nearly as well as I do 'interrogating' and 'intimidating'.

"Kenneth Cleary is a serial rapist," I explain, feeling my heart rate jump as the words leave my mouth. "An alleged one, I guess, because of the damn mistrial. I woke up and he was on top of me. I fought him off and ran into the hall. Gabriel was already there. I told him what happened and he went inside –"

"Police!" a new voice yells. It's very close; the officer must be right on the other side of the door. I reach above me blindly for the door handle, but Clara stops me.

"Prove it," she shouts back, gripping my hand tightly. I freeze. It hadn't occurred to me that it might be Cleary pretending to be a cop.

"How do you expect me to do that, lady?" the gruff voice demands. "Shove my badge under the door?"

"Uniforms," I mutter with disdain, his tangible annoyance bringing me back to myself for a moment. "All attitude and no ingenuity."

The dispatcher laughs. "Ask him his name and have him up the volume on his radio," she says. "I'll call him."

"Give me your ID and badge number, and turn up your radio," I call out to him, surprised at the waver in my voice. He must hear it too, because his tone softens.

"Brad Carlton with the 1-6," he shouts. "Badge 1724."

"I got it," the dispatcher says, and a moment later I hear the familiar squawk of police radio static. "Dispatch 1-2-4 calling Officer Carlton, 1-6, badge 1724."

The echo is odd, hearing her voice coming from both the phone and the radio. It's enough to convince me that Carlton is who he says he is. I scoot away from the door and Clara opens it, stepping back to allow him to see us both.

"Alex, is he there?"

"He's here," I confirm for the dispatcher.

"Good. I'm going to hang up now, all right? The officers will take good care of you."

"Wait," I plead, realizing I have no idea who this woman is. "I didn't catch your name."

"Cassandra," she says. "It's okay now, Alex. You're safe with the officers."

"Thank you, Cassandra," I say, and hang up the phone. Officer Carlton offers me a hand up, doing a double take when he recognizes me. I take his hand, feeling my knee protest the movement as I stand.

"Did you catch him?" I demand, at the same time Clara asks, "Is Gabriel all right?"

"We got the guy," Carlton says, ushering us both into Clara's living room. Gabriel is standing next to the couch, talking to another uniform. Clara gives a glad cry and launches herself into Gabriel's arms. He hugs her tightly before looking over at me.

"I watched him until the cops showed up, but he didn't try to run," he tells me, shifting Clara to one side and reaching out for me with his free arm. "He didn't even try to get up. You left him hurting, kid. Nice job."

I step into his embrace and he pulls me close, ruffling my hair in a brotherly manner. I feel Clara's arm wrap around my waist, locking me into a three-way hug. We stand that way for a moment, and then Carlton clears his throat.

"Ms. Cabot, we need to get statements from the three of you."

"Page the Special Victims Unit," I reply, resting my head against Clara's shoulder. She kisses my forehead gently, as though I'm one of her pediatric patients needing reassurance. "Whoever's on call tonight. This should be their case."

"Already did," the other uniform says, sounding annoyed. I glance over at him. His name plate says 'D. Lowell'. "Detectives Munch and Tutuola are on their way."

I nod, pulling away from Clara and Gabriel to face him.

"What did you do with Cleary?"

"They're loading him into a bus now, ma'am," he says, in a tone that tells me he's tired and bored and obviously doesn't see why I should care. "Now, if it's all right with you, I need you to give me your statement."

"Maybe you ought to go supervise the arrest on the ambulance instead, Officer Lowell," I tell him, righteous anger making me stand a little taller despite the fact that I'm still in my pajamas. "Because if he gets off on a botched-arrest technicality, I will personally have your badge and your sergeant's career."

"Oh, really?" he asks, still sounding bored.

"Dave," Carlton says, a warning note in his voice. "Maybe you didn't recognize ADA Cabot."

Lowell jumps. "No, ma'am, I didn't," he says, properly chastised. "I'll go Mirandize him myself."

He high-tails it out the door, nearly colliding with John Munch, who's walking in. My heart leaps into my throat. In all the commotion, I almost forgot that I'm the victim tonight. I'm going to have to go down to the precinct and give my statement, and I'm probably going to have to be checked out in the ER as well. I curse Cleary silently one more time before John catches sight of me.


End file.
